I've been going back and reviewing some of the countless blog drafts just sitting in our account. I'm deciding to release some of them today.
Here's the first...
Today is Saturday, July 18th. We had a rare Saturday morning with coffee, relative silence, and a bowl of cereal each. Later in the day, we took our dog, Jovie, for a walk to a nearby field; we played fetch with her and gave her full run of the field. She seemed to enjoy the freedom and is now sleeping soundly outside under our car. I would say she's content.
I think the run was more exciting than it probably should have been, but we keep her in our yard all the time. Yards in the DR vary greatly in size, but almost all are enclosed by fences of some type to discourage prowlers, robbers, and the occasional cow from entering uninvited. Being from the country, or el campo, these fences and cast-iron gates can seem like prisons to me, at times. I'm sure the dog (she's a terrier of sorts) identifies on some level -- she was made to run, hunt.
In the mornings, when it's time for us to leave the house for work, or whatever else the day has, the routine is to catch the dog, place her in her 3'x3' cage (long enough to open the main gate and get the car out), then close it so that she can be released once more into her 30'x30' cage for the day. She does have full run of the place and a spectacular concrete roof on which to spend her leisure time when she's tired of the concrete patio/sidewalk down below. But a yard that a dog can span in less than 2 seconds feels confining, I'm sure.
All summer I've been sharing cultural orientation with incoming groups here, and quite frankly, it's been slightly challenging. In all the ways you can imagine.
First, there's growing up in a culture much like the one we're living in now. Describing this culture to Americans, as an American, has left me sometimes feeling ever-so-slightly on the raw side. I grew up in a region of the United States that sees it's fair share of missionaries, and I was never too pleased with the whole process. Imagine being something you used to resent. Now imagine yourself having to be bubbly/funny as you explain the concept of cultural sensitivity to a group of people just like the ones whose arrival you used to dread back home.
Life during my childhood had its problems--I didn't know what they were at the time, because I was too busy enjoying life as a kid. Only later, when I "grew in knowledge" of my impoverished state of being, did I begin to feel shame. I was content in the six-mile circle, sandwiched between Powell Mountain and Wallens Ridge, known as Stickleyville.
Missionaries were always a bit awesome to me: meaning I felt awe-struck (star-struck may be more accurate). They had great stories of life in other parts of the country, or the world. They had cool clothes and gadgets.
Some of the people I grew up with would say things to me, like: "You have so much potential, please don't stay here. Go make something of yourself." These words mixed with foreign people from exotic places--like Minnesota or Illinois--telling us all about the God we each heard about every Sunday (while showing us what life was like in lands with no problems) made for a potent elixir to create a downward spiral. So, I eventually left because, hey, the world has so many cool things and people, and, apparently, there's nothing for me here. Somewhere the Gospel fits in there, I'm not totally sure where, though.
Along the way, contentment gave way to discontentment, which led to complacency, and then depression.
So today, as I was projecting my worldview onto my dog, my dog showed me what I used to know. She loved running free, chasing her little blue toy as far as my arm could throw it. She loved eating that cow-pie (she's a dog, OK?), and when play time was over, she came to us -- where we were squatting down to pet her -- and laid down, rolling to her back, exhausted, content and wanting to be petted. She knew where 'safe' was. She had no need of leaving the area to find her freedom; it was there with us the whole time.
As I type, I imagine a dog wanting to be free from its concrete prison, longing for greener fields with other dogs and better food. I imagine a sad, discontented dog. The reality is that we have a dog that loves her people. We are her contentment because we feed her, give her water, and pet her. She does what she wants everyday, but she always comes home, because it's her home. It's her safe place.
The more I think about our dog, about being a missionary, about orienting other Americans to a foreign culture (and the internal conflict that causes), I struggle with the sub-conscious message I heard so many times growing up: there's a better way, and there's a better place -- neither of which, are here.
"Location, location, location..." screams the mantra, and it's true if you're wanting to sell something. But the Gospel of Christ isn't a commodity to be sold. Telling a person(s) that they can have a better grasp of God if they will only change this thing or that thing isn't good news. It's heaviness--an adding of weight to a people already burdened. The Pharisees already tried that tactic.
To go into a a foreign country -- or the next state over -- to tell people I have a 'better way' of doing things is what IBM does. Or the Coca-Cola company. Or America.
To be like Christ (or even Paul) is to go somewhere and become like the people in that place, to share ideas--to learn more about "God" from their perspective and to share Jesus from my perspective. Then to let God's presence--His Holy Spirit--change what needs changing (in them, too). Because truthfully, God is the one who has created each of us. It's His eternity that is placed in our hearts. It is He who provides everything we need (and more than most of us can use), and it is Him to whom those who know His voice run.
I can't tell Dominicans there's a better way of living any more than those missionaries years ago could tell me that there was a better way of living. In fact, almost every person who's ever gone on a mission trip (which I've met) has been blown away by 'how present God already is' and how content (often stated, "poor, but happy") those of us with less actually are.
So, as a missionary, thinking about missionary things, I find myself rethinking what it means to 'do missions'. I still see the immense value of short-term trips (I see the evidence of world views shifting almost daily) and I see the value of long-term missionaries in other countries -- even to America (I met a Canadian missionary, once, in Arkansas--one of the great moments of my life!). But I think the vacation mentality needs to be dealt with before people leave home to go serve "those people". If there could be humility in a bottle, I would prescribe it liberally to all who want to serve, because serving ≠ condescending.
So don't go on a mission trip, or enter the mission field, because you believe you have a better way of doing things -- even if you call that way Jesus, you will simply be selling your way of living to someone else, calling it 'Good News'. Don't go somewhere for those poor people. Go because you love God so much that you want to tell everyone about Him.
Pretend he's the new iPhone and the mission field is your Facebook account. Be that excited.
Here's the first...
------------------------------
I think the run was more exciting than it probably should have been, but we keep her in our yard all the time. Yards in the DR vary greatly in size, but almost all are enclosed by fences of some type to discourage prowlers, robbers, and the occasional cow from entering uninvited. Being from the country, or el campo, these fences and cast-iron gates can seem like prisons to me, at times. I'm sure the dog (she's a terrier of sorts) identifies on some level -- she was made to run, hunt.
In the mornings, when it's time for us to leave the house for work, or whatever else the day has, the routine is to catch the dog, place her in her 3'x3' cage (long enough to open the main gate and get the car out), then close it so that she can be released once more into her 30'x30' cage for the day. She does have full run of the place and a spectacular concrete roof on which to spend her leisure time when she's tired of the concrete patio/sidewalk down below. But a yard that a dog can span in less than 2 seconds feels confining, I'm sure.
All summer I've been sharing cultural orientation with incoming groups here, and quite frankly, it's been slightly challenging. In all the ways you can imagine.
First, there's growing up in a culture much like the one we're living in now. Describing this culture to Americans, as an American, has left me sometimes feeling ever-so-slightly on the raw side. I grew up in a region of the United States that sees it's fair share of missionaries, and I was never too pleased with the whole process. Imagine being something you used to resent. Now imagine yourself having to be bubbly/funny as you explain the concept of cultural sensitivity to a group of people just like the ones whose arrival you used to dread back home.
Life during my childhood had its problems--I didn't know what they were at the time, because I was too busy enjoying life as a kid. Only later, when I "grew in knowledge" of my impoverished state of being, did I begin to feel shame. I was content in the six-mile circle, sandwiched between Powell Mountain and Wallens Ridge, known as Stickleyville.
Missionaries were always a bit awesome to me: meaning I felt awe-struck (star-struck may be more accurate). They had great stories of life in other parts of the country, or the world. They had cool clothes and gadgets.
Some of the people I grew up with would say things to me, like: "You have so much potential, please don't stay here. Go make something of yourself." These words mixed with foreign people from exotic places--like Minnesota or Illinois--telling us all about the God we each heard about every Sunday (while showing us what life was like in lands with no problems) made for a potent elixir to create a downward spiral. So, I eventually left because, hey, the world has so many cool things and people, and, apparently, there's nothing for me here. Somewhere the Gospel fits in there, I'm not totally sure where, though.
Along the way, contentment gave way to discontentment, which led to complacency, and then depression.
So today, as I was projecting my worldview onto my dog, my dog showed me what I used to know. She loved running free, chasing her little blue toy as far as my arm could throw it. She loved eating that cow-pie (she's a dog, OK?), and when play time was over, she came to us -- where we were squatting down to pet her -- and laid down, rolling to her back, exhausted, content and wanting to be petted. She knew where 'safe' was. She had no need of leaving the area to find her freedom; it was there with us the whole time.
As I type, I imagine a dog wanting to be free from its concrete prison, longing for greener fields with other dogs and better food. I imagine a sad, discontented dog. The reality is that we have a dog that loves her people. We are her contentment because we feed her, give her water, and pet her. She does what she wants everyday, but she always comes home, because it's her home. It's her safe place.
The more I think about our dog, about being a missionary, about orienting other Americans to a foreign culture (and the internal conflict that causes), I struggle with the sub-conscious message I heard so many times growing up: there's a better way, and there's a better place -- neither of which, are here.
"Location, location, location..." screams the mantra, and it's true if you're wanting to sell something. But the Gospel of Christ isn't a commodity to be sold. Telling a person(s) that they can have a better grasp of God if they will only change this thing or that thing isn't good news. It's heaviness--an adding of weight to a people already burdened. The Pharisees already tried that tactic.
To go into a a foreign country -- or the next state over -- to tell people I have a 'better way' of doing things is what IBM does. Or the Coca-Cola company. Or America.
To be like Christ (or even Paul) is to go somewhere and become like the people in that place, to share ideas--to learn more about "God" from their perspective and to share Jesus from my perspective. Then to let God's presence--His Holy Spirit--change what needs changing (in them, too). Because truthfully, God is the one who has created each of us. It's His eternity that is placed in our hearts. It is He who provides everything we need (and more than most of us can use), and it is Him to whom those who know His voice run.
I can't tell Dominicans there's a better way of living any more than those missionaries years ago could tell me that there was a better way of living. In fact, almost every person who's ever gone on a mission trip (which I've met) has been blown away by 'how present God already is' and how content (often stated, "poor, but happy") those of us with less actually are.
So, as a missionary, thinking about missionary things, I find myself rethinking what it means to 'do missions'. I still see the immense value of short-term trips (I see the evidence of world views shifting almost daily) and I see the value of long-term missionaries in other countries -- even to America (I met a Canadian missionary, once, in Arkansas--one of the great moments of my life!). But I think the vacation mentality needs to be dealt with before people leave home to go serve "those people". If there could be humility in a bottle, I would prescribe it liberally to all who want to serve, because serving ≠ condescending.
So don't go on a mission trip, or enter the mission field, because you believe you have a better way of doing things -- even if you call that way Jesus, you will simply be selling your way of living to someone else, calling it 'Good News'. Don't go somewhere for those poor people. Go because you love God so much that you want to tell everyone about Him.
Pretend he's the new iPhone and the mission field is your Facebook account. Be that excited.
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